


like chasing the clouds

by leitmotifs (orphan_account)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, M/M, Retrograde Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-30 12:30:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1018636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/leitmotifs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Harry,” Niall echoes after him, the name decidedly fitting for this strange boy in the picture. He sets the frame down.</p><p>He won’t forget. (Except he does, over and over and over again.)</p><p>Or: the one where Niall can't make new memories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like chasing the clouds

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by Story of My Life, even though the song actually bears no relevance to this story, i don't think? besides the title. it's just such a pretty song and i had it on repeat while i wrote this ;~;
> 
> for this;  
>  **note;**  
>  the condition described here is sort of like the one from 50 First Dates, except i've sort of tweaked it for the purpose of fitting the plot!!! it's sort of like retrograde amnesia (hence why i tagged it as such) but not completely, so please don't think that this is 100% accurate. there are fictionalized things here. uwu

There are pictures the wall. There are pictures of him – by himself, with others. Most of all, there are pictures of him and a boy with green eyes and hair tucked into a beanie.

“Who is he?” he asks. His name is Niall, they told him, Niall Horan and he’s twenty and he’s not an actual blond.

The boy with dark hair slicked into a messy quiff is standing next to him, appraising the row of pictures running down the hall. Niall can’t recall his name, but he knows he’s a year older and he’s engaged to his girlfriend and they’re both quite lovely.

The apartment is strangely quiet. The others are out, Niall thinks.

“I don’t know,” the other boy finally answers. He’s not looking at Niall, instead silently inspecting the picture. “I was hoping you’d be able to tell us that.”

Niall studies the picture. It’s a blurred photo of him and the brunet, and they’re side by side, with arms slung over each other’s shoulders. “I don’t remember,” he admits grudgingly, despite the faint sense of familiarity tugging at the back of his mind. He ignores that. He doesn’t remember, not really. He feels like he should, but he doesn’t, and he doesn’t want to lie. “I— I’m sorry, what’s your name again?”

“Zayn.” The dark-haired boy turns halfway, looking at him with an unreadable gaze.

“I’m sorry,” Niall repeats, feeling a little silly now. He avoids Zayn’s eyes, rubbing at his own arm absently.

“It’s fine.” Zayn waves him off, turns the other way, and starts walking down the hall. Niall knows it’s around nine in the morning, so he reckons that he’s going to make breakfast.

Before he can help himself, he’s calling, “Zayn?” and when he’s got Zayn’s attention, he says, perhaps a little helplessly, “I really am sorry. I know it’s hard having me around, but…I promise, I’ll do my best to get better.” He bites his lip. “I won’t be a bother.”

Zayn watches him. His eyes are sad, maybe. Niall can’t tell. “Nothing you’ve gotta apologize for, Ni,” he finally says, and Niall bristles at the unfamiliar nickname. “We’re best friends, the four of us. It’s going to be different, yeah, but,” he pauses, giving him a hesitant smile, “I know you’ll be better one day.”

Niall nods, tight-lipped and quiet as he watches the other boy finally disappear down the hallway.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, watching the pictures. If there is a definite amount of time he must spend looking at them until the memories come rushing back, then he would wait, however long it takes.

When his legs feel a little wobbly, he tears his eyes away and starts down the hall. To his right, one of the doors click shut. It startles him; he thought that the other boys were out.

Niall stares at the door, contemplating going inside. But he doesn’t want to be a nuisance; that’s what he promised Zayn, isn’t it?

He trudges into the kitchen, where the frying pan is already sizzling and the air is becoming filled with the scent of fried eggs. He takes a seat at the counter, and there’s another picture there. It’s him and that green-eyed boy again.

“What were we?” It’s a thought he hadn’t meant to say out loud.

Zayn hums in acknowledgement, flipping the egg over. “Best friends,” he answers over his shoulder. “Since high school, mostly. You and Louis met in seventh year, and then you met me and Liam in ninth.”

“Are we good friends?” The question feels redundant as soon as it leaves his mouth. Of course they are. There are pictures everywhere to prove it, and no ordinary friends would allow him to stay at their apartment like this.

Thankfully, Zayn doesn’t sound hurt. “Yeah.” He nods. “People used to say we were _too_ good.” He gives a small laugh to himself, and Niall finds himself smiling along.

He thinks up of imaginary scenes in a high school cafeteria, him and Zayn and – what were their names – Liam and Louis all sitting at one table, laughing over some joke. Or throwing food at each other. Or trying to cram homework together.

“We started a food fight, once,” Zayn adds in mirth, and Niall does laugh that time.

He can’t exactly call those scenes memories, because he’s not sure if that’s really what happened, but he’s fine with pretending until he _can_ remember. And afterwards, he’s sure that he’ll ask how on earth he could have forgotten such things.

He diverts his attention to the frame still in his hands.

“Who are you,” he murmurs, tracing the edge of the glass frame absently. There are dates scrawled on the bottom, a day and month and year he’s lived but can’t recall.

Zayn sets down his spatula. “Harry,” he says, after a long while. At Niall’s curious glance, he merely shakes his head and wipes his hands down. “His name’s Harry,” he says. Then he turns around and leaves it at that.

“Harry,” Niall echoes after him, the name decidedly fitting for this strange boy in the picture. He sets the frame down.

He won’t forget.

 

 

There are pictures on the wall. No, there are pictures everywhere. They’re on his bedside table and his dresser, then in the halls, then in the kitchen, then in the living room. He recognizes himself and three of the other boys that frequently appear, because they’re the three that have taken him in, claiming to be close friends. Then there’s another one, with green eyes and hair reminiscent of flyaway curlicues, but Niall hasn’t gone around to asking who he is yet.

“Do you think it’s strange?” one of the boys asks, as they’re coming out of their room and Niall happens to be standing there.

Niall steps aside so they don’t bump into each other. “A little,” he admits over the sound of his stomach grumbling. It’s eight in the morning, so he reckons it’s hunger. It might also be that surgery he had the previous day – he read the note that had been left on his bed. That’s strange, too, the way he can’t remember even the night in the hospital. All he has as mementos are bruises and the faint throbbing in his head. “Ah…” he begins, meaning to address the other boy but not grasping any name that comes immediately to mind.

“Liam,” the other supplies. “I’m Liam.”

He looks disappointed and Niall wants to hang himself by the neck. Some best friend he must be, unable to remember even their names.

“It’s okay,” Liam adds, as if he can read his thought. He puts a hand on Niall’s shoulder and it’s hesitant, like he’s touching some frangible thing, but Niall allows it for the sake of normalcy. “It’s just…unsettling. We’ve known each other for years, you know? And now you can’t even remember me.”

He chuckles, obviously trying to lighten the mood, but it comes out forced.

Niall feels worse. “I’ll get better,” he promises, shooting the taller boy a hopeful smile. “I really will, Liam.”

“I’ve no doubt you will, Nialler.” Liam smiles back easily, his fingers gripping tighter before releasing him entirely. He takes a step towards the kitchen. “You hungry?”

“Starving.” Niall follows after him, and they pass by the three other doors on the way. One of them slams shut right before Niall can glimpse who’s inside. “Where are the others?” he asks.

“Lou’s got football practice. Zayn’s still asleep. And…” Liam walks around the counter, trailing off. Across him, Niall watches his expression carefully and the way it looks troubled for a moment. “And we’re here, eating breakfast.”

“Okay.” Niall doesn’t want to push it, and Liam doesn’t look like he wants him to, so he doesn’t. He picks up the picture frame on the counter and props his chin on his forearms and studies it. “Who’s this?” he asks lazily.

He’s looking at a photograph of him and another boy, both of them wearing jackets and hats and pressed closed to each other’s sides. His cheeks are flushed in the picture, and the other boy has his green eyes crinkled in a captured laugh. It looks like it’s snowing in the back.

He sees the way Liam tenses by the refrigerator. “His name’s Harry,” he says, taking the milk out and setting it on the counter. It’s a few seconds until he talks again: “I don’t s’pose you remember him?”

“No,” Niall says, and he means the regret in his voice. “Should I?”

Liam pours himself a mug. “I guess not,” he murmurs.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s fine.”

But it’s not. Niall can read body language.

Liam gets to work on making breakfast. He explains that he and Zayn and Louis constantly take turns, because they’re the only ones who know remotely how to cook around here (and that Niall once tried to cook, but nearly burned the kitchen down). Then the curiosity is too much and Niall asks more questions about anything and everything, and Liam seems more than happy to answer him.

He avoids talking about Harry, though. It makes Niall look down at the picture and wonder just who this boy is.

“I smell food,” a third voice sings, and Niall twists around in time to see the boy named Louis coming from the hallway, hair tousled and eyes bright. “Morning, Niall!”

“Good morning, Louis,” Niall greets tentatively.

Louis’s grin widens, so Niall assumes he said something right. “I bought some Nando’s tonight and put the leftovers in the fridge, ‘cause I know how much you love that stuff.” He slides into the seat next to him.

“Nando’s?” Niall questions, but he’s kind of amused, too.

Then Louis’s mood appears to drop and Niall doesn’t feel so smiley anymore.

“Sorry,” he says, because he can’t think of anything else to say.

“It’s fine,” Louis says, like Liam did.

And again, it’s not.

 

 

There are pictures everywhere. There’s even one on his dresser. That one is of him flanked by a man and woman and he assumes that they’re his parents – then he feels bad for assuming, because they’re his parents and he shouldn’t have to assume like that. Some son he must be, unable to even recall their names.

“It’s your turn,” says the harsh whisper outside.

Niall stays very still in his bed. The voices have been going on for almost half an hour now, and he only catches bits and pieces of the conversation – but it sounds like it’s important, and he really doesn’t mean to listen, but he also doesn’t want to walk out and potentially place himself into an awkward situation, facing two of the three people who are supposed to be his best friends.

“I don’t know how long I can keep doing this,” says the second voice. This one sounds tired. The fatigue carries in his tone, even through the walls.

“You haven’t even tried,” hisses the first.

“There’s no point. I— I did that to him. I’m the reason he’s like that. It was me driving, it was me—“

“For God’s sake, would you shut up? He misses you, okay? He stares at your fucking pictures and he asks who you are and he _misses_ you.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

Then there’s the slam of a door.

Niall counts one hundred forty three seconds before finally getting up. He sets his pictures face down, and when he walks out to the kitchen, he purposely averts his eyes from the ones on the wall.

There are two of them in the kitchen.

“I’m Liam,” says the one by the counter.

“Zayn,” says the one standing in front of him.

Niall shoots them grateful smiles. It’s almost like they’ve done this before.

“Hungry?” Liam asks.

Niall touches his stomach thoughtfully. The note said he had a surgery, so that may be why he feels so cruddy in general – but some food might help.

 

 

There are pictures everywhere.

The boy with the feathery-brown hair and stormy blue eyes catches him in the hallway, just staring at them.

“Good morning,” he greets, and Niall smiles at him and returns it.

“Louis,” the boy says, like he’s anticipating the question. “I’m Louis.”

“Louis,” Niall repeats sheepishly. “Sorry.”

“No, no, it’s fine.” Louis’s mouth curves into a smile, and it seems genuine enough. He comes up next to Niall, folds his arms across his chest, and turns to the wall, too. “What are you doing up so early?”

“Couldn’t go back to sleep,” Niall answers. It must be around eight in the morning, and his eyelids do feel rather heavy, but he can’t bring himself to lie back down.

“Wow.” Louis laughs, his shoulders shaking slightly. “Usually you’re never up before noon – just like Zayn, except, you know, he’s worse. Maybe you should get bonked in the head more often, huh.” He nudges Niall in the side.

“Bonk me in the head for the sake of early rising,” Niall returns, the banter coming easily. “Sure, sounds reasonable.”

Louis’s eyes crinkle whenever he smiles. “I would take the honors of doing it for you,” he says pleasantly. Then he crooks his arm and offers it to Niall. “It’s my turn to make breakfast today. Would you care to assist me?”

“Let the amnesiac help you cook. You’re full of reasonable thoughts today,” Niall comments laughingly, but then Louis is kind of staring at him, caught off-guard.

Niall gives a small shrug. He kind of knows what he is. The note explained some of it, like how he’s still recovering and these three boys – his best friends – have volunteered to make sure he’s okay. He reckons something happened to him, with the fading bruises littered down his arm and his side. The gaping black hole in his memory speaks for itself.

“Yeah,” Louis finally says, slowly regaining the witty tone to his voice. “Yeah, I’m usually full of those, don’t you _remember?_ ” And he sounds good-natured, but he’s also looking at Niall’s face like he’s afraid of saying something wrong – or, maybe, he’s hoping for something.

“I’m working on it,” Niall says tryingly. He hopes it’s not too disappointing of an answer.

Louis clicks his tongue. “I’ll give you three days’ time,” he says warningly. “Got it? And if you do, then Harry and I’ll come with you to that stupid horror movie you wanted to see.”

“Very tempting reward,” Niall comments, even if he's not sure who Harry is.

“’course it is.” Louis clears his throat, starting down the hall. Niall holds onto his arm and follows.

A door slams shut.

“So get better, okay?” Louis adds, oddly quiet.

“I will.”

There’s another picture popped up on the counter when they step into the kitchen. Louis asks him to grab a spoon, but Niall becomes sort of preoccupied, studying the picture of him and the green-eyed boy. “Who’s this?” he asks, because he doesn’t remember seeing that one around, but he’s in his fair share of photos around here.

Louis glances up from where he’s sorting the utensils. “Oh,” he says when he sees what Niall’s looking at. He says, very softly, “That’s Harry.”

“Is he our friend, too?”

“Yeah.” Louis nods, but it’s more to himself. Niall watches curiously as the other boy switches the stove on. “Yeah, you could say that.” He worries his bottom lip with his teeth, indecisive. “He loves you,” he decides to add, voice a little strange. “Loved.”

“Love, past tense,” Niall echoes. He stares down at the picture. Some part of him acknowledges that he’s gay. More parts of him acknowledge that this boy, at some point, might have been…his.

Harry and Niall. Niall and Harry.

It sounds nice.

“Where’s he now?” he asks, tracing a finger over the frame.

Louis doesn’t answer this. Instead, he says, “He loved you – a lot.”

For some reason, Niall says, “Me too.” He’s vaguely aware of Louis dropping the spoon with a clatter, but in truth, he’s too busy looking at this picture and wondering what that boy might have felt like, holding him in his arms. “Love him, I mean,” he adds, maybe for clarification.

And there’s this satisfaction unwinding in his stomach, like he’s glad to finally put a label on this…sensation. It’s the kind that feels like an eruption of butterflies and the warmest of blankets, a sigh of relief after admitting something that maybe he's known for a very long time.

Niall quirks a little smile to himself. “But, I think,” he mumbles, “present tense.”

 

 

There are pictures everywhere. Thankfully, no one catches him staring at the ones in the hallway; before someone _does_ , Niall walks off.

He ends up in a kitchen of sorts. It looks very typical, if not on the messy side. There is a carton of eggs set out, like someone was preparing to cook.

He sits down at the counter and cradles his head in his hands. It hurts, a little. The note warned him of the ache, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. His brain feels like it’s grown hands and is trying to climb out of his skull.

With a long exhale, Niall runs his fingers through his hair and straightens up. By accident, he knocks over yet another picture frame.

Worrying briefly that he might have cracked it, he hurries to set it up right. It turns out to be this picture of him and another boy, with bright green eyes and a wide grin. His curly, unruly brown hair is littered with little snowflakes and it's endearing.

Strings of familiarity are tugging at his heart. It’s something he feels every time he looks at the pictures and is inundated with unfamiliar faces, but it’s even stronger whenever he looks at ones of him and this green-eyed boy.

He doesn’t hear the second person come in until there’s a presence at his side.

This one’s got curly brown hair and green eyes, like— like the one in the photo.

“He loved you,” the stranger’s saying, expression unreadable. “Loves,” he amends, moments later. “Present tense.”

Niall blinks at him, then drops his gaze back down to the picture. He doesn’t say anything. There are thousands of words on the tip of his tongue, but they’re all jumbled and he can’t form sentences, kind of like his mind: he’s got these bits and snippets and he wants to piece them together because he feels like he should know this boy, should know why he elicits that fluttery feeling in his chest—

“Harry,” the other boy says, finally, without Niall having to ask. He’s smiling, maybe a little wryly and maybe a little sadly and maybe a little affectionately. “His name’s Harry.”


End file.
